which I had lent to her and she enjoyed . . . had the asinine effrontery to write to me . . . of "McSwiney's farcical death." Isn't it dreadful to think that the world has given birth to women who can write like that?
Can death ever be farcical? We know that the epithet is wholly inapposite in the present instance. But can death ever be farcical? I told you, I think, of Major Johnson, who, throwing hot coppers from the balcony of the Grand Hôtel in Paris at the crowd cheering Kruger, overbalanced himself, fell to the pavement and was killed. That is the nearest approach to a farcical death that I can think of. But I should call it ironical. A farcical death. Alas!. . .
On 31. 10. 20 he writes:
I fear you will have a hell of a windy time at
Deal or Dover or wherever Walmer Castle has
its being (Walmer perhaps, as an afterthought)?
It is blowing half a gale here. The Dutch say
"to lie like a horse-thief." The English ought
to say "to lie like a guide-book." One lies before
me at this moment:
"In fact, Ventnor is a sun-box; and the east and north winds would have to confess that they
